


Between Two Fires of Beltane

by secretsalex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguity, Anal Sex, Angst, Death Eaters, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Spy Draco Malfoy, Spy Severus Snape, Top Harry Potter, Wizarding Wars, a whole lot of desperation fucking, but just because of the situation itself, imagines if the war had dragged on for years, not because draco doesn't wanna fuck harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsalex/pseuds/secretsalex
Summary: As the war drags on, Draco becomes a spy for Voldemort and works his way into Harry’s good graces—and his bed. When the Order prepares to invade Malfoy Manor, Draco is forced to examine his loyalties.





	Between Two Fires of Beltane

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2012 [HDS Beltane](http://hds-beltane.livejournal.com/114511.html) fest.

**2 April 2000**

The mattress beneath them is filled with straw. Literal straw. Draco couldn’t believe it when Harry had brought him here. He’s Draco Malfoy. He should sleep on beds of goose down covered in sheets with a thread count so high it’s sinful.

Instead, he spends his nights sleeping on a sack of straw in Arthur Weasley’s toolshed, with Harry Potter draped around him like a blanket. 

Harry shifts in his sleep, pulls Draco’s arse tighter against him. Harry’s prick is half-hard again, even in his sleep, and Draco can feel it. Before he can stop himself he’s pushing back against it, grinding a little despite still being sore—still being fucked wide open. 

Harry makes him a little desperate. A little slutty. 

A little reckless. 

*

_16 January 2000_

_I met with Potter today. Came to him and played the penitent. Denounced the Dark Lord and my father in one breath. (Left Mother out of it. Always do.)_

_I don’t know if he bought it. He’s hard to read, these days. Not like the boy I knew._

_Father would kill me—perhaps literally—if he knew I was keeping this journal. I know it’s monumentally stupid. No charms are foolproof, and I can’t afford to leave a record. Snape keeps lecturing me on the art of the double-cross, over and over and over._

_I don’t know which side he’s on anymore. I’m not sure he does, either._

_DLM_

*

**6 April 2000**

“Morning.”

Harry’s voice is a mumble, sleep-rough and deeper than normal. Draco heard a Muggle record once, an album by someone named Tom Waits. He thinks Harry sounds like him, like that Muggle singer, when he wakes up. He likes it. 

“Hey,” Draco says. His own voice is light, fey as always, with no hint of sleep around its edges. He’s always woken easily. 

Never slept deeply. 

The light coming through the shed’s many cracks is brittle and pale, and Harry pulls him closer. The quilt over them smells musty, damp, and again Draco marvels at his very presence in what he would have once denounced as squalor. 

“We have a meeting today. Noon.” Harry yawns and runs a hand through the snarl of his hair. “We’re always having meetings. That’s all the we do, feels like.”

Draco shrugs. He much prefers the endless Order meetings, the plotting and planning, to open war. “What else can we do?”

“Storm your father’s house and take them all out?” Harry grins, maybe only half-joking. 

It’s a terrible idea. The wards on Malfoy Manor are nearly impenetrable, for one thing. And Harry could never catch Voldemort unprepared. The Dark Lord’s spies are everywhere.

“Mmm, no,” Draco replies. He rolls until he’s sprawled against Harry’s naked chest and throws one leg over him. His prick is hard, pressing against Harry’s hip, and it’s the best distraction he can offer. 

Harry takes the bait, flips Draco onto his back with a rapid burst of energy that is at odds with his sleepy eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but his hand fills with lube, and Draco marvels again at Harry’s wandless magic. The Dark Lord had not been pleased to discover that Harry was learning to harness his ability. It was not something he’d been counting on—the fact that with time, Harry’s talents would morph from raw power into a honed skill. That was Voldemort’s mistake, his underestimation of Harry’s dedication. Draco had known that before he’d ever started spying. 

Harry pushes two fingers inside him without much finesse, but he finds the prostate so quickly that Draco can’t complain. All he can do is gasp and writhe on Harry’s hand, playing the whore in what feels less and less like a role. 

“You’re still fucked wide open, aren’t you? I could have just shoved my prick in.” Harry has a filthy mouth. It surprised Draco at first, but now he’s come to expect it. To enjoy it. 

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” Draco can hear himself, desperate and needy.

Harry pulls his hand away, and Draco thinks he’s going to fuck him, but instead he pushes back inside, three fingers this time. 

“Someday, Malfoy—someday I’m going to put my whole fist inside you.” Harry’s finger fucking him steadily now, and the combination of touch and words has Draco moaning like a slut. “I’ll break you apart on my hand, Malfoy. You’ll be beautiful. God, I’ll tear you in half.” 

*

_20 January 2000_

_Spent the afternoon taking shots of firewhiskey with Potter—some godawful stuff, real swill. American, I think._

_Who imports liquor from America? Who imports anything from America? Fucking Order. No class, any of them._

_Father keeps telling me to gain Potter’s trust by any means necessary. “Any means necessary,” he keeps driving that point home._

_I think he wants me to let Potter fuck me, honestly._

_I have no idea if Potter’s queer. He didn’t talk about much except the war, and nothing useful. Nothing I didn’t already know, nothing Snape hasn’t already reported a thousand times._

_Grimmauld Place is a fucking hole. I’m not surprised the Order doesn’t choose to stay there even though it’s safe. I don’t know how Mother came from that family. Her taste must have come directly from God, because it’s certainly not genetic._

_God. Ha._

_DLM_

* 

*

**6 April 2000**

The meeting is abominably slow, and the Order is exhausted, like the weary rebels they are. The Death Eaters have had the Ministry years now. They call this a war, but they’re guerilla fighters, really. 

Sometimes Draco wonders what will happen if they do kill Voldemort. The Order doesn’t ever acknowledge it, but even if they won, nothing would ever be the same. The Ministry is gone; the old Ministry, anyway. They couldn’t even reinstate the former Wizengamot. Half are dead or fled, the other half in the Dark Lord’s service. 

Draco wonders if the Order knows that killing Voldemort would only be the beginning. 

Harry’s hand is on Draco’s thigh under the table, and his fingers are creeping higher and higher as he talks, arguing again for a direct invasion, practically screaming for action. 

He’s still, at heart, convinced that he will win. That he has to win. That good will triumph over evil, et cetera, et cetera. It’s incredibly naïve, but Draco doesn’t blame Harry for it. The alternative is to lie down and die. 

“We could mount the invasion,” Harry says, and his hand drifts higher still. He loves to do this, to fondle Draco into insanity while they sit at the table, then dismiss the meeting and pull Draco down onto his lap, impale him on his cock and tell him to fuck himself blind on it. “With Draco’s information, we could take the Manor. Slip through the wards, maybe go unnoticed until we’re right on them.” 

The Order is muttering to itself, and about half look to be on-board. Molly Weasley is wringing her hands, but Shacklebolt looks absolutely hungry for blood. Granger’s eyes are ice cold, and Draco wouldn’t want to meet them over wands. Harry may actually have them, finally. May have convinced them a suicide mission is the way to go. He can’t believe Harry is really doing this. He thought it was still a pipedream, even this morning. 

Harry clears his throat to be heard over the din, and everyone falls silent. “I will leave it up to a vote. But please, consider it. With Draco in the Order, the Manor _can_ fall." 

Draco’s balls are cupped in Harry’s hand when he finishes speaking. 

* 

_25 January 2000_

_Those that I fight I do not hate,  
Those that I guard I do not love_

_Muggle poetry. An Irishman named Yeats._

_Yeats was writing about the first Muggle World War. He might as well be writing about me, here, now._

_Apparently the Muggles killed each other in flying machines. It sounds so futile. I wonder if someone will read about this war someday and think the same thing. I’ve no particular affinity for either side anymore._

_My father keeps asking “how far I’ve gotten” with Potter. I’ve no idea._

_DLM_

* 

**17 April 2000**

When the invasion is nearly in place, everything seems to slow down. The Order is ready; the assault on Malfoy Manor is imminent. But then, of course, there is waiting. Waiting for Charlie to return from Romania. Waiting for Fleur to return from a diplomatic meeting with French allies about the rise of neo-Death Eaters there. Waiting, waiting. 

Draco can hardly stand it. 

Dinners in the Burrow are family-style, and Draco stays by Harry’s side, knowing the other Order members share no fondness for him. He picks at the good country fare, Mrs. Weasley’s meat pies and mash, and waits for Harry to deem the evening over, to stand up and take his hand, say their goodnights and guide him out of the room, out of the overcrowded house, and to Arthur’s shed where they sleep. 

Draco knows Harry had already taken the shed as his room before Draco came to the Order, but a part of him can’t help thinking that Harry’s selflessness in not taking up a bed in the Burrow is really rooted in his desire to fuck Draco mindless, until he’s screaming, without worrying about the Order’s sensibilities. 

“C’mere,” Harry says the moment the shed door swings shut behind them. He’s always like this after spending time with the Order—like the power of being in charge of the resistance gets his prick hard, maybe. 

The knot in Draco’s stomach feels like a Bludger when he does, stepping into Harry’s arms. 

“Pretty boy,” Harry says, his voice a husky croon, one hand wrapped around Draco’s waist, the other grasping his chin. “Such a beautiful boy.” 

Draco closes his eyes. He can’t look at Harry when he’s praising him like this. Not tonight. 

“You’re so beautiful, and you’re gagging for my cock up your arse, aren’t you?” 

Draco jerks his head. _Yes. Yes, yes. Inside me._

When Harry lays him out on the mattress, naked and exposed, and pulls his legs up, up, and up until they’re resting on Harry’s shoulders, Draco shudders. 

When Harry’s hand slips behind his balls, he lets his eyes fall shut. And when two fingers push inside him, he feels the tears begin to well. 

Harry twists his fingers, twists and thrusts until Draco is flopping back desperately against his hand. “You want my cock, don’t you?” Harry’s voice is deep, nearly distorted, the way it always is right before they fuck. 

Draco lets the tears spill out from under his eyelids, feels them shimmering on his lashes. “Yes, Harry. Yes, yes.” 

When Harry’s inside him, pushing halfway in and stopping, letting Draco adjust to what is still a painful intrusion even now, months into it, Draco chokes back a sob. 

“Beautiful,” Harry whispers, pushing forward another careful inch. “Don’t cry, beautiful boy. You take it so good, baby. So fucking good.” 

When Harry’s full sheathed, he groans, and Draco can feel that deep vibration run through his whole body. “Fuck.” Harry starts to move, sharp, slow snaps of his hips that make it hard for Draco to breathe. “When this war is over, I won’t fuck you here anymore. I’ll take you everywhere, baby. Take you to Paris, fuck you senseless in the most expensive hotels in the city.” He pushes harder, a little faster—but still steady enough to keep up a running dialogue. “The war will be over and I’ll take you out of this place, give you all the things I know you want. All the things you gave up.” 

Draco sobs in earnest then, his breath hitching. 

“Yes—fuck, yes. You’re so fucking hot when you cry like that,” Harry mumbles, his hands like anchor weights on Draco’s shoulders, holding him down against the bed, his hips like pistons, every part of Draco pinned beneath Harry. “So fucking beautiful, and I’ll make this all up to you, baby. I’ll make it better.” 

Harry’s battering Draco’s prostrate, and he can feel his orgasm approaching even though his prick is untouched, just trapped between them. Draco puts his hands up, tangles them in Harry’s hair, and when he opens his eyes, all he can see through his tears is his own Dark Mark, glowing in the shed’s gloom. 

* 

_3 February 2000_

_I let Potter fuck me today. Father would be so proud._

_He’s spent more and more time with me in the last week or so. I think it’s amusing to him, a distraction, to spend time with someone like me—someone he knows and doesn’t know, someone who isn’t Weasley or Granger, someone who doesn’t expect him to work miracles. Fuck, I barely expect Potter to tie his shoes successfully._

_I fed him little details about the inner circle. Things that wouldn’t matter, not really, but enough that he could justify sitting and drinking with me at three in the afternoon when he’s supposed to be leading a revolution._

_We fucked in the field behind Weasley’s house, behind some magicked barrier Potter threw up. He’s powerful. More powerful than I thought, maybe._

_Afterwards, he kissed me._

_DLM_

* 

**25 April 2000**

It isn’t easy to get away from the Burrow. At first it was difficult because no one trusted him; now it’s difficult because Harry wants to keep Draco protected. Safe. And, for Harry, protected and safe means attached to his hip. 

Draco slips out for ostensible walks, insisting that he needs fresh air, a moment to himself. 

As soon as he’s a reasonable distance from the Burrow, he Apparates into Malfoy Manor. 

The first thing that strikes Draco is how strangely similar Death Eater headquarters are to Order headquarters. They don’t look the same, of course. There is no way to compare Arthur Weasley’s crazily tilting, shoddily magicked home to the ancient estate of the House of Malfoy. But in a way, they are identical. 

Both are run, in part at least, by a woman. Molly Weasley oversees the goings-on at the Burrow with an eagle eye, and for all that she might appear to wring her hands in her overlarge bosom and let her menfolk make decisions while she makes sure the Order is fed, Draco has seen Molly narrow her eyes, dig in her heels, and insist on something one too many times to believe for a second that Molly is some glorified cafeteria hand. She may spend most of her time in her kitchen, but she is also one of the most senior members of the Order. 

At the Manor, Narcissa’s presence is everywhere. It’s the first thing Draco notices when he arrives—the way his mother’s Chanel perfume and her favorite roses scent the entire house, the way he can close his eyes and imagine his tall, graceful mother in perfect detail. Unlike Molly, Narcissa rarely steps foot in a kitchen, and she never speaks during Death Eater meetings. She sits on Lucius’ right, her eyes downcast, and she plays the role of the all-supportive wife to perfection. But behind that façade is the real Narcissa—a woman who can conjure as much magic as her crazed sister, who will, once the watching eyes of the rest of the inner circle have left, stare down her husband and _demand_ that she get her way. A woman who will smile graciously at Fenrir Greyback, bow before Lord Voldemort, but who never, ever loses the steel in her eyes, in her spine. 

Draco walks into the formal dining room, where Voldemort has taken to holding court with himself at the head of the table. Various members of the inner circle are lounging around the room, and the mood is informal but tense—the same static crackle in the air that hangs over the Burrow, always. 

Lucius is on his feet in an instant. “Draco, my son.” 

Draco nods. “Father.” He walks past Lucius, meeting his eyes only for a moment, and drops to his knee before the Dark Lord. 

“Draco, dear boy.” Voldemort lays one cold hand on Draco’s shoulder. “How has it been, slumming with those…animals?” 

“I do what I must, my lord.” Draco’s response is automatic and tightly controlled. 

“Ye-es,” Voldemort says in a drawl. “Your father assures me that you do.” 

Yes, Draco is sure his father has as good as offered Draco’s arse up for Harry’s pleasure—or any other Order member, if it might further the cause. It should offend him, horrify him—but of course, he can still feel twinges from where Harry fucked him this morning, so he can hardly disagree. 

Draco clears his throat. “I have news, my lord.” 

“Have a seat, boy.” Voldemort gestures to the empty chair beside him, and Draco sits. A jumpy house elf promptly hands him tea, and he takes a long drink before starting to speak. 

“The Order is planning to invade Malfoy Manor, my lord.” And so he begins. 

* 

_15 March 2000_

_I sit at his right hand at Order meetings now. I know everything_ \--everything-- _about them now._

_Snape is making me potions at an alarming rate. Calming draughts. Dreamless Sleep. I take both daily now, something I’ve never done before._

_Sometimes I pretend I’m not a spy. Sometimes I pretend that it’s real. Or that the war will go on forever._

_DLM_

* 

**4 May 2000**

Guilt is a funny thing. For Draco, it means that he can’t stop touching Harry. He clings to him while they sleep. Sits practically on his lap when they take meals with the Order. If he stays next to him, near him at all times, he can’t think about Voldemort. About the other side. About any of it. He can’t because to think of it would be to give it away, and he is a good spy. Snape has taught him everything he knows, and Draco is a quick study. 

“I don’t think you should be at the invasion,” Harry says the night before the attack. 

Draco shifts a little, feeling Harry’s come drip down his thigh as he moves. “Why?” 

“It’s too dangerous.” Harry pushes Draco’s hair back. Draco looks straight into his eyes and holds his gaze. He won’t look away. He won’t. 

“And it’s…cruel, I guess,” Harry continues. “To see your family on the other side of the battle. I can’t—I can’t ask you to do that. I want you to stay here. We need someone here, anyway." 

Draco swallows, and the click of his throat is audible. “I would be a target, too.” 

“Yes. They would kill you.” It’s not a question, and Harry doesn’t frame it as such. 

“Traitors die.” 

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I’m sure that’s Death Eater policy.” 

“And not Order policy?” Draco’s voice raises an octave, and this is dangerous ground, _verboten_ , but he can’t stop himself. “You would let a traitor live?” 

Harry sniffs. “Pettigrew lived, didn’t he?” He pauses, shrugs. “I wouldn’t. If it is ever my call to make—no.” 

Somehow it’s comforting to know this—that Harry would be ruthless, too. 

Draco nods again. “Yeah,” he whispers. 

“It’s a war. I wouldn’t have a choice.” 

* 

_25 March 2000_

_The Dark Lord is impatient. I’ve not produced anything substantial—not really. Nothing they didn’t already know. This can’t go on that much longer. It can’t._

_When Weasley finds out I was a spy, he’ll shit—if he’s still alive, that is. If any of them are._

_Maybe before it all goes to shit I should AK Weasley just so that Harry won’t have to hear him say I told you so._

_Harry is still drinking that awful American whiskey. There’s a picture on the label, some little log cabin. It’s rustic, quaint and terrible in the way that only American kitsch can be. Sometimes when we pour shots I look at that cabin and imagine what might happen if we left. Harry and me. If we just cut our losses and got the fuck out, let the war rage on without us._

_A cabin in America might be a step up from Arthur Weasley’s fucking tool shed._

_DLM_

* 

**5 May 2000**

It is nearly dawn, and they haven’t slept. Harry has fucked him wide open, again and again, with a kind of desperation that is probably part fear, part fascination—there is something terribly thrilling, Draco suspects, about fucking a Marked man in the hours before what you imagine might be the final battle of the war. 

If one were to believe in sympathetic magic in its purest sense, Harry fucking Draco is in preparation for the battle—to fuck one’s enemy is to put on his strength; to know him so intimately can only improve the odds of overpowering him. 

Harry is turning to leave when Draco calls him back. 

Harry doesn’t look irritated by the request; he and the rest of the Order are standing in the field outside the Burrow, seconds from Apparating, but he returns to the doorway, where Draco stands. 

“We’ll be back soon,” he says, reaching out to brush Draco’s cheek. “We won’t—we won’t hurt your mother.” 

Draco blinks. It hasn’t occurred to him that Harry might spare anyone in the Manor, if he had the chance to make such a choice. 

He swallows. “I told him, Potter. The Dark Lord. He knows.” 

* 

_1 April 2000_

_The nightmares are getting worse._

_My father looks like shit. Hosting the Dark Lord is no picnic, I take it. Mother keeps saying she’s so glad I’m “away from it.” She’s a smart woman, but I don’t know how she thinks I could possibly be “away” from anything where I am._

_I’m in the middle of everything._

_DLM_

* 

**5 May 2000**

Draco’s wrists are bleeding. That’s the first thing he notices when he comes to. 

They’re bound above his head, hanging from a Muggle light fixture that Arthur has hanging in his tool shed. 

He can’t believe he’s not dead, truly. Harry had just said it, just days ago: If it were my decision, I’d kill them. A traitor. Harry had said he would kill a traitor. 

But he hasn’t. For whatever reason, Draco is still alive. 

“Count your blessings,” Snape’s voice rings out from the corner, and Draco can’t turn his head far enough to see him, but he must be there. 

“He’s fucking you, so it’s clouded his judgment. Clever boy.” 

Draco gags helplessly, but Snape doesn’t move to help him. 

* 

_15 April 2000_

_I can’t live like this. This half-life._

_Why hasn’t Snape killed himself yet? How can he stand it?_

_DLM_  


* 

**5 May 2000**

Harry reaches back, and Draco knows the backhand is coming a split second before the impact jars him. His teeth clack together, and he wonders if a few are loose. 

“You worthless Death Eater whore.” Harry’s hand is on his throat now. “I should kill you.” 

Draco doesn’t look away. He won’t let himself. 

“Say something. Explain it, god damn it. What the fuck, Malfoy? What. the. fuck.” 

Harry moves his hand from his throat to his chin, grasping it painfully, and Draco tries to swallow but he can’t. 

“I never had any choices,” Draco finally says. 

Harry’s laughter is dead. “You never had _choices_? God, you fucking piece of shit. I would have protected you! The Order would have _died_ for you. Because I told them to. You fucking worthless prick.” 

And now Draco is angry, too. “You were raiding my motherfucking _house_ , Potter. You self-righteous prick. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Huh? What choices do you think I had?” 

Harry is right next to him before Draco realises what’s going to happen. Harry’s prick is hard, pressed up against his thigh, and Draco can’t breathe. 

“I should take away all your fucking choices,” Harry says, spitting the words. Draco can feel the magic coming off him—waves of deep red anger and something else, something Draco can’t quite identify. 

Harry’s hands are on his shoulders, then down to his hips, then grabbing his arse and pulling Draco flush against his prick, grinding against him. 

“Fuck you, Potter.” 

“No, fuck you”—and then before Harry can finish, his magic acts of its own accord and the ropes at Draco’s wrists disappear, and Draco tumbles down, his feet unable to support his weight. Harry half-catches him, stumbles, and they land in a tangle, Harry on top. 

When Harry’s mouth comes crashing down on his, Draco can’t help but kiss him back. And he knows this might be the last kiss of his life—because what is there going to be, after this? Harry can’t keep him around, keep him by his side like the pet he’s been for the past four months. He can’t go back home—he’s exiled, abjured, no longer welcome at either table, on either side. 

If Harry doesn’t kill him, he’ll do it himself. 

* 

_1 May 2000_

_The festival fires are burning in the field behind the Burrow. Harry looks happy, brown like a gypsy in the firelight._

_The first tutor I ever had was Irish. It still surprises me, sometimes, that Mother hired her. Her accent was all wrong, her clothes weren’t right—she was so very common. Too common for the Manor. (Of course, now Fenrir Greyback is a regular visitor. Standards have fallen.) But she was gentle and young. If I’d ever liked women, maybe it would have been one like her._

_Anyway. She celebrated the old festivals. She was the one who told me about them. Mother and Father didn’t observe them._

_She had a turn of phrase, when she was caught in a dilemma. “I’m between two fires of Beltane,” she would say in that pretty lilting peasant accent. It meant she was between a rock and a hard place._

_I stood between the fires tonight. I don’t see any way out from between them._

_DLM_

* 

**5 May 2000**

Draco expects Harry to fuck him hard, maybe dry. He expects it to hurt. 

It doesn’t, though. Harry conjures lube like he always does, and maybe he doesn’t take much time for preparation, but Draco can take it. He has been for months. 

And maybe Harry is a little more desperate now than he has been before, maybe the way he fucks him is a little more intense, a little more on edge, but it’s not really harder. 

Draco closes his eyes and inhales when it’s over and Harry is sprawled out on top of him, panting. He breathes in Harry’s skin, his sweat, the soap he uses that smells like evergreen and lemon, all fresh and sharp. If this is the last thing he ever experiences, the overwhelming scent of Harry Potter surrounding him, he doesn’t think it will be so bad. He doubts most people get such pleasant end scenes. And he doesn’t think an _Avada Kedavra_ actually hurts. You’re dead before you know it, he suspects. At least, that’s what it’s looked like the numerous times he’s seen the spell performed. 

But Harry makes no move for his wand, even when his breathing has slowed and his prick is softened against Draco’s belly. 

“The Order want you dead,” Harry says quietly, his face buried in Draco’s neck. 

“You do it, Harry. No one else.” Draco doesn’t think that’s too much to ask. 

Harry ignores him. “Why did you tell me Voldemort knew before we were going to leave this morning? 

Draco’s response is prompt. “You would have walked into an ambush. You would have all died.” 

“And the war would have been over, essentially. Resistance crippled. You could have gone home.” 

Draco shakes his head, tightening his grip on Harry’s shoulders. “I don’t have a home, Potter.” 

Harry falls silent, so long that Draco wonders if he’s fallen asleep. It’s starting to hurt, having Harry lie on him this way. He’s taller, but Harry outweighs him by at least two stone—maybe more, lately, with the way the war has left Draco gaunt and sick-looking. Too thin by far. 

“If the war stopped right now, if the world was normal again, where would you go?” Harry asks, finally breaking the silence. 

Draco grins in spite of everything. “To that cabin on the whiskey bottle.” 

Harry snorts. “Some backwoods mountain in the States?” 

The smile fades from Draco’s lips. “Yes. I’d never look back.” 

Harry is silent again, but this time Draco knows he’s not sleeping. 

“Me too, Malfoy,” he says at last. “Me too.” 

Draco lets his eyes drift shut then, shifting under Harry’s bigger body until he can breathe comfortably again. When he dreams, it is of himself, and Harry, and two Beltane fires. They are walking between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tiptoeing back into the H/D fandom after a five-year hiatus. I'm [secretsalex](http://secretsalex.tumblr.com) on tumblr (and LJ, for that matter). Come hang out with me!


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